


Bruises

by byAlessandra



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Jos Verstappen's A+ Parenting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byAlessandra/pseuds/byAlessandra
Summary: He sees it now; with his body sunken to the floor and back pressed against the wall, with his hand lingering over his throat where he still feels another one cutting off his air.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo & Max Verstappen, Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> just dumping all of the stuff I write into my notes on my phone, don't mind me :)

His dad doesn't love him.

He loves that he can live his dreams that he never managed to fulfill on his own through Max now.  
He loves that he can finally have the success although it's not even his.  
He loves that he has a name, even if he isn't the one who made it.  
He loves all that, but he doesn't love Max. 

Not like a father should love his son.  
He doesn't treat him like a father should.  
Jos is all harsh words, cold stares and painful hits.  
He always defended his dad, said that he just wanted the best for him.  
Jos didn't want the best for Max, he wanted the best for himself. And Max was the way to get to his goal, was just a means to an end.  
He failed to see that, because he didn't want to believe it, because deep down he still hoped that his dad would change.

He sees it now; with his body sunken to the floor and back pressed against the wall, with his hand lingering over his throat where he still feels another one cutting off his air. 

Fingers digging into the soft flesh.  
Imprinting themselves on porcelain skin.  
No air, too much pressure.  
Bruises embedded into his skin, into his mind. 

He never forgets the pain, instead he locks it away into a space of his mind. Sometimes the memories run free, mostly when he is alone.  
They seem to be able to fly, and he chases them with scissors, trying to cut off their wings.  
He never catches any of them. 

A sob tears in his throat and shakes his shoulders.  
Who is he?  
He always did what his father told him to do.  
Racing was his dream. Or was it just a dream he was taught to have? 

If it wasn't for his dad, what would he have liked? Something different? Other sports, or something artistic? Maybe he even would have liked something political, god knows. 

If it wasn't for his dad, who would he have been?  
Would his edges be less rough and his heart less torn?  
Would he not be pushing everyone that gets too close away and instead let them in, let himself be the human he deep down has always wanted to be? 

He would never get the chance to figure out who he might have been, who he could have been.  
He chased dreams and goals he used to be so sure of. He is not anymore.  
But he isn't anything without racing.  
That's all he has ever been, all he will ever be. 

He is a marionette, every jerky move made and controlled by his dad. And he doesn't know how to cut off the strings, isn't even sure if he would want that; he would fall to the ground and shatter, not able to get back up. 

And so he stays, stays in the hands of his father and stays pressed against the cold wall.  
Until a warm hands lands on his knee that's pressed against his chest and he jerks away, eyes focusing back from wherever he stared at in his spaced out state. Now they settle on a familiar face, on two warm brown eyes.  
He doesn't really hear what Daniel is saying, but he doesn't need to. He focuses on how gentle and quiet the voice sounds, so rich of love and worry. 

Daniel has always been the opposite of Jos.  
Daniel never talked to Max like he wanted to rip out his heart bit by bit with every poison filled word.  
He never touched Max like he wanted to break his ribs and leave dark-purple bruises all over his skin. 

That's why Max leans forward and presses his face against Daniel's shoulder, digging his fingers into the fabric of his sweater, letting every wall he ever built fall to pieces.  
And Daniel holds Max like he always does; with strong but incredibly gentle arms, with hands rubbing down his sides as carefully as if Max is made of glass and with tender kisses pressed to his temple. 

Maybe he is made of glass, and with every hit of his father new cracks form and they rip further and further until he is shattered all over.  
But Daniel is his glue that sinks into the broken surface and softly puts the pieces back together again, slowly but surely.  
Daniel fixes all of the places Max never knew were broken and ruined while he holds him tight.  
Surely a ruined surface would never be the same, would never be as soft again, but Daniel manages to smooth it out. 

Daniel makes it all alright.


End file.
